Page 7 of Three Weeks with a Princess
Well, he’d be damned if he was the one to bring the estate crashing down around his mother and sister. They deserved more than that, as did the tenants and staff who worked at Stonefell and in the mansion in London.
And he could never forget Lia and Rebecca, who were as much his responsibility as anyone else under his care.
“What about that idea you floated in your letter to me a few weeks back, when I was in Lincolnshire?” he asked Lindsey.
He’d been there for the wedding of his closest friend, the Duke of Leverton, to the unconventional Miss Gillian Dryden. It had been a welcome respite from his problems, although their marriage had raised a tricky issue he had yet to work out.
Lindsey brightened. “You mean Stonefell’s potential for ore and coal mining? The surveys have yielded some very positive results, but in order to proceed, we need . . .”
“Additional investments,” Jack said grimly.
“Yes, sir, for more surveys and preliminary explorations. And to go ahead with any sort of comprehensive venture at this point, we would need a substantial investment.”
“Would selling the rest of the timber in the home wood be enough to get us started?” Jack loathed the very notion, but he’d be willing to make the sacrifice. A productive mining operation would not only provide jobs for his struggling tenants and villagers, it could alleviate the debts encumbering the estate.
“I’m afraid not,” Lindsey said with a regretful shake of the head. “There’s no doubt we need outside backers to establish a viable operation.”
But any investor worth his salt would want to see profits as soon as possible. No one would be inclined to invest if they had to wait several years until Jack restored the estate to health. There was another alternative, of course, but he wasn’t particularly thrilled about that one either.
He closed the ledger in front of him with a thud. “I think we’ve both depressed ourselves enough for one day, Lindsey. I’ll be traveling to London in a few weeks. I will speak to my bankers about finding potential—and patient—investors while I’m there.”
Lindsey stood up. “Very good, my lord. I can put out feelers to a few private investors when I’m next in Ripon, if you like.”
“Do that but quietly. We don’t need word getting around that things are as bad as they are.”
“As you wish.”
After Lindsey collected the ledgers and soft-footed his way out, Jack eyed the remaining work on his desk. It felt as if he’d been confined to the stuffy old room forever. Normally, his uncle’s library—his library now—was a favorite place to while away the time. It had always been a welcoming retreat, with its elegant Queen Anne furniture richly mellowed by age, a collection of books lovingly built up over the generations, and several truly impressive globes his uncle had acquired over the years. The handsome room spoke of the taste, wealth, and power of the Lendale line.
Today it felt more like a prison.
He stood and headed for the French doors, his hand automatically reaching out to spin the largest and oldest of the globes as he passed.
You really ought to sell that, old boy, along with the rest of them.
It just might come to that. Along with the antique volumes on the shelves, the globes would attract a pretty sum from a collector.
Shoving aside that unpleasant thought, he stepped onto the terrace, lifting his face to the late afternoon sun. It had been a cool, rainy summer, so even a hint of sunshine was welcome.
He gazed out over this little piece of his domain. The flower gardens behind the house had always been a pleasing mix of roses, flowering shrubs, and hedges. And although the roses still bloomed thick and full, and the ivy and honeysuckle twined lushly along the stone balustrades of the terrace, the garden was no longer up to its previous immaculate standards. The hedges looked a bit ragged, the roses verged on running wild, and the lawn was just a little too long. Old Merton, the head gardener, was doing his best, but Lindsey had been forced to let some outside staff go last year. Only the kitchen gardens were still in top shape, and that was thanks to Lia. According to the housekeeper, she diligently helped Merton tend the extensive herb and vegetable gardens that kept the house abundantly supplied.
Lia, what am I going to do with you?
Though he’d only returned to Stonefell two days before, he’d been avoiding her, which was a new and unwelcome development. Jack had loved the girl almost from the moment he’d met her, back when she’d been an engaging, mischief-prone toddler. Lia was family as far as he was concerned.
But she was also his friend, and a very good one. Although she was five years younger, Jack had long trusted her judgment. Lia was both funny and kind, but she also had an enormously practical head on her slim shoulders. After Lindsey, she knew more about the running of the estate than anyone. She’d grown up here, loving it with a fierce devotion that surpassed that of any member of the Easton family.
Unfortunately, that devotion to Stonefell was about to be poorly repaid. Of all the people on the estate, Lia and Rebecca Kincaid were the most vulnerable.
He couldn’t put off imparting the grim news any longer. He counted it as ironic that when he could finally see his dear friend as often as he wanted, he was doing everything he could to avoid her.
Using the gate at the bottom of the garden, he strode along the pretty, tree-lined lane that led to Bluebell Cottage. Once a small dower house, Uncle Arthur had converted it into a private abode for his mistress. It was far enough from the main house to be out of sight and out of mind, when necessary, but still close enough for the previous marquess to easily visit the once-notorious Rebecca Kincaid whenever he wished. It had always struck Jack as a medieval arrangement that was manifestly unfair to both Rebecca and her granddaughter. Of course, he’d grown used to the odd situation over the years, as had most in the neighborhood, especially those who depended on the estate for their livelihood. That the marquess had loved his mistress with an abiding passion had never been in doubt, and he’d expected everyone in his circle to accept her presence as an immutable fact of life.
Jack’s mother, naturally, had never accepted it. And now that he was the Marquess of Lendale, she expected him to do what she calledthe moral thing.
As he rounded a curve in the lane, the red slate roof of the cottage came into view, its old chimneys poking above the trees. More a small villa than a rustic abode, Bluebell Cottage was built with the sharp angles and pitched roof of the Jacobean era. Set well back from the lane and shaded by ash and sycamore trees, it was surrounded by an old-fashioned flower garden with a spectacular display of rosebushes. But unlike the larger garden at the main house, Bluebell’s flower beds were pristinely maintained, flourishing under an expert hand.
Lia’s hand. She’d always loved to garden and had never minded getting dirty and wet. As a little girl, she’d been Merton’s shadow, imitating his every move. Her enthusiasm and cheery ways had charmed the crusty old gardener, and almost everyone else at Stonefell Hall.
